


The Blue Circle

by SoftRegard



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Hank, Ken doll crotch, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Snowballing, Strap-Ons, Top Connor, non-sexual Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftRegard/pseuds/SoftRegard
Summary: Hank hasn't bottomed in a long time, but Connor is determined to have this experience with him.





	The Blue Circle

**Author's Note:**

> A different take on Hank bottoming - less fraught and emotional - and overall a bit different from my usual fare.
> 
> "The Blue Circle" is me riffing from John Wick ;P

Humans often say that the best ideas come during a shower. Connor doesn’t shower, but he finds his own version of this phenomenon when giving head.

There’s a small shake of the bed as Hank’s head falls back onto his pillow, and his hair splays behind him in a big bloom of grey. He’s close, and Connor is seized with a sudden thought. It makes him stop, because it’s a wonder he hasn’t considered it before - despite being so _obvious_. He pulls off, ignoring Hank’s surprised sputter and excitedly asks, “Have you ever been on the receiving end of anal sex?”

“Wha-” Hank’s mouth works around invisible words, too jumbled for Connor to discern what they might be. “Uh...sure?”

“You have?” Interesting. It isn’t often he’s wrong about his assumptions about the man. “When? Did you enjoy it? And are you interested in doing so again?”

Hank clamps his hands down onto Connor’s shoulders and gives him a pinched look. “We gotta talk about this _now_?”

Connor glances down at Hank’s cock, dripping and ruddy where Connor left it bobbing against his stomach. It glistens with his saliva, and he remembers his manners. “Oh. Sorry.”

Before getting back to work, he gives him a significant look: “But we’re not finished talking about this.”

With a shuddering, exhausted kind of sigh, Hank mutters, “If you insist…”

 

*

 

It’s a good day to walk - and to talk.  

Sumo comes to a stop next to a tree. When he lifts his leg, Hank turns to Connor and asks, “Why’re you so obsessed with the idea, anyway? Not like you’re gonna get much out of it.”

Hank shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Sumo’s leash handle looped around one thick wrist. Connor watches the way he sways where he stands, rocking back and forth on his feet as he waits for the dog to finish up. It’s only spring, but warm enough for just a t-shirt, and so Hank has forgone his usual jacket. Even without the extra layer he is a large man, and his stance is very wide. Sometimes, Connor finds he must walk half a step behind him just to have enough room on the sidewalk.  

Connor clasps his hands behind his back, and shrugs. “Humans are very preoccupied with penetrative sex.”

“Yeah,” Hank nods. Sumo returns, and they resume walking. “Because it’s fun. Usually a two-way street, though.”

“I enjoy performing oral on you,” says Connor, and Hank’s head whips around despite there being no one else on the street; Connor smiles brightly at the pointed scowl thrown his way. “Despite experiencing no sexual gratification from that, either.”

Hank grumbles.

“We’ve talked about this already, Hank.” Connor says. “What’s so different about this?”

He’s not sure why Hank seems to hold this act such a different standard - his social and cultural training modules give him some insights on a larger level, but he hardly cares about what other humans think. He wants to know _Hank’s_ thoughts.

Hank’s jaw twitches, and the tip his tongue peeks out from between his lips. Thinking.  

Months ago, it had taken some coaxing to convince Hank to consider becoming intimate. At first, Hank had objected, discomforted by Connor’s lack of sexual compatibility, his lack of sensation: “ _I’m not one of those assholes that’s into fucking someone that won’t even like it, Connor_ ,” he’d said, red in the face. He had railed against the idea, cited the kind of unsavoury characters that went to places like the Eden Club as the kind of person he didn’t want to be. Connor had struggled to explain to him that his interest was _genuine_ , even if he couldn’t feel it - he had wanted to know what Hank looked like, smelled like, tasted like. He had wanted to make Hank feel good, and he knew he wasn’t wrong in wanting it despite Hank’s reservations.

Now it seems they’re back to that stage again, where Hank protests on grounds of presuming to know what’s best for Connor. He adores Hank very much, but the man can be incredibly short-sighted. And frustrating.   

“It’s just…y’know...” Hank waves ones of his hands, and Connor watches it swing on the hinge of his wrist with skepticism. He is a poor speaker when he’s feeling awkward. “Blowjobs are one thing, I guess.”

Connor raises a brow, “Yes. _I guess_.”

“Fuck you - you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

Hank sighs, rolling his eyes up and throwing his head back to look at the sky; Connor takes the moment to admire the shape his throat makes, that stretch of muscle. Hank likes having his neck kissed. Whenever Connor does so in the space behind his ears, he shivers in pleasant way.     

“Look,” Hank comes to a stop, turning bodily to face Connor. A few paces ahead, Sumo looks behind him in confusion. “Head is one thing - and I’m real happy that you like doing it, somehow.”

Connor waits and watches him shuffle on his feet again.

“But when you’re -” Hank smacks his hands together in some crude interpretation of what intercourse is evidently supposed to look like. “And one person isn’t even getting into it? It’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“What? Of course not!”

“Hm.” Connor’s eyes flit away, and he presses his lips together to keep from smiling. Hank scowls.  

Sumo whines in impatience, so they resume walking. For a few minutes, neither of them say anything. Hank looks lost in thought while Connor considers his next words carefully, calling upon his every skill as a negotiator. It may not be a life or death situation, but deviancy has made Connor fixate onto his own wants in lieu of mission objectives. He wonders if this is how humans live, too.

“Hank,” a tilt of the head signals that Hank is paying attention, though he keeps his eyes forward. “If it makes you that uncomfortable, I won’t ask anymore.”

Hank makes a noncommittal sound, and Connor takes it as his cue to continue: “But as I’ve said before - I’m happy when you enjoy yourself.”

He reaches over to brush the backs of his fingers against Hank’s jaw, sweeping through the roughness of his beard. Hank isn’t one for public displays of affection, but there is no one else around and so Connor indulges himself. He gets a small, wry smile for his efforts.  

“And I find it...satisfying, to be able to have some hand in it,” he finishes, earnestly. “Trust me, I’m very ‘into it’.”

It may not be the same kind of satisfaction that humans feel, or even companion androids, but the sight of Hank’s blissful face after orgasm has become one of his favourite sights. He likes sound of Hank’s back hitting the bed, too, and the way his hands pull at Connor’s shoulders and runs fingers through his hair. Forcing Hank into the moment, back into his own body and out of the creeping dark of his thoughts, has its own appeal - one too difficult to quantify. It’s blissful sort of feeling, even stronger than the positive feedback he used to get when completing mission objectives or when receiving praise from Amanda. He likes feeling skillful, capable - and Hank makes him feel that way with every involuntary moan.

It’s become heady and addictive, in its own way.

“You’re a real charmer, y’know,” murmurs Hank, looking over at him with that look in his eye; the one he gets whenever Connor does something particularly pleasing, or funny. “Where’s it all come from, huh? They program you to be an old man’s walking wet dream? A mid-life crisis enabler?”

“I think my ‘Hank Anderson Seduction Module’ could use some retooling,” quips Connor. “If you’re still resisting me this much after all this time.”

Hank laughs, and Connor grins. He glances around before looping his arm discreetly around Hank’s. His sleeves are rolled up and he heightens his sensors so that he can better feel the sensation of Hank’s bare skin: warm and smooth on the inside of his elbows, rough everywhere else.

“Ah, shit,” Hank grunts. “All right...you got me.”

Connor watches Sumo’s tail wagging ahead of them, and his grin turns smug.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank brings up his free hand and points at his own temple. “What’s it say in there, right now?”

Connor pauses, then winks: “‘Mission successful.’”

Hank snorts, though he looks amused and shakes his head in fondness. “Figures.”  

They change gears to talk about work, and make their way back to Hank’s house for dinner.

 

*

 

There’s no need to rush things, and it is a couple of weeks before they get around to it. The knowledge that Hank has agreed sits comfortably inside him all the while, and Connor takes his time in researching and shopping for materials. Hank has left all the preparation to him, citing a lack of preferences in any of the specifics - though Connor suspects that it’s mostly laziness and a latent embarrassment about the whole thing. So Connor purchases a harness with a slew of positive reviews online and a toy that is pleasing in size and shade. It’s a deep, dark blue - Hank’s favourite colour, he recalls.   

He waits for them to arrive, and life goes on as normal: they go to work, they take care of Sumo, and Connor continually fine-tunes his technique at giving head while Hank reaps the benefits of Connor’s need for perfection. There’s an undercurrent of something new, a silent acknowledgement of what they’ve agreed upon. He knows that Hank thinks about it too, sees the change in the way he looks down at Connor while Connor is taking his cock deep into his throat; one night Hank suggests that he use his fingers and Connor finds a new thrill in the tensing of Hank’s thighs, the way he clenches and pushes at the intrusion while seemingly unable to get enough of it. New reactions, new heights; more of Hank for him to catalogue and to carry with him on the days they can’t see each other. Sometimes, Hank is tired from work and goes right to sleep - on those nights, Connor goes home to his apartment a few neighborhoods away, and peruses his memory banks in lieu of dreaming.

The new stimulation makes Hank come harder than usual that night, and as it floods his mouth Connor feels the rush of yet another new idea. He crawls his way up the length of Hank’s body and slowly, so as to give him a chance to pull away, reaches up to pry Hank’s jaw open. He locks eyes with Hank, sees understanding, and lets the come drip from his tongue into the hot cavern of Hank’s mouth.

One of Hank’s hands comes up to cup behind his head and brings him down all the way, where they meet in a kiss. It’s messy and unrefined, and the way Hank groans into it sends sparks of triumph through Connor’s body. When they finally pull apart, Hank leans forward to wipe his mouth on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Well, look at you - you’re just getting nastier by the day, huh?”

He looks a little bit proud as he says it.

Connor shrugs and runs his fingers through Hank’s beard, already tacky with his own saliva and ejaculate. Hank’s tongue flicks out to dab at his fingertip, and Connor smiles as he says: “You’re a good source of inspiration.”

Hank hums and taps at the empty space between Connor’s legs, through the slacks, and asks, “Sure you don’t feel…?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

Connor rolls his eyes. Hank lets out a breath.

“Damn.”

One day the man will understand what it is that Connor gets out of this, however slowly. He’s lucky that Connor is patient.

He reaches up with his sleeve and wipes at Hank’s mouth and beard. Hank might forget, and it wouldn’t do for him to fall asleep that way.  

Big arms come up to wrap around his middle. Connor likes this part, too. He tucks his head into the space between Hank’s jaw and shoulder, rubbing his hand over Hank’s stomach under his shirt. They stay this way for a while, and Hank eventually drifts off into a nap.

 

*

 

The day his strapon comes in, they’re knee-deep in a case.

Tonight they’ve been called in to visit the owner of The Blue Circle, the most recent among a number of new clubs that have opened in Detroit that boasts mixed human and android patronage. The owner, Howard Martinez, has reportedly been receiving threats to his establishment for his pro-android sympathies and requested police intervention. The Blue Circle is not the first to be hit with such threats, and tonight Hank and Connor will meet with him to get a handle on the situation. It will be their third visit to such a place this week.

But first, there is paperwork.  

Were he still a machine, Connor would be able to prioritize and compartmentalize his focus better; deviancy makes him slightly more selfish, it seems. While writing up files at his monitor, he finds his attention split between preparing the case and thinking about his romantic life. He wonders how much of it can be attributed to stress.

He’d gotten the notice that his package made it to his apartment earlier in the day, and he looks forward to fetching it.

Hank had worked into the night the day before, and had gone home earlier to get some rest. The plan is for the two of them to convene at The Blue Circle tonight.

Connor sent him a message that his supplies have come in, and that he will drop it off at Hank’s house while he runs some errands, before meeting him at the club:  

 

Connor (2:38pm): Please clean it for me before you leave.

Hank (2:44pm): What’s the hurry? We might not even get around to it tonight, y’know.

Connor (2:44pm): Perhaps. I would like to be prepared, just in case.

Hank (2:48pm): All right. It’s your show.

 

“Connor.”

He turns in his chair to find RK900 making his way over, a box tucked in his arm. The other android comes to a stop by his desk and slips the box down next to his feet.

“What’s that?” asks Connor, trying to discern it’s contents from the shipping label. There’s no clues there.

“A gift,” says RK900, blandly. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, a black button-down so dark and crisp against his pale colouring that he looks a ghost. A very severe looking ghost, one given a wide berth at the precinct, still, even after months of being here. “I’ve purchased some clothing for you.”

Connor glances down at the box again, wondering if there is an occasion that he has forgotten about. He asks as much, and RK900 shakes his head, impatient.

“I dislike the way you dress,” he says. Not mean - only honest.

Connor blinks.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Connor, diplomatically. “But why take it upon yourself to dress me, then?”

“We have the same face,” RK900 crosses his arms. They’re bigger than Connor’s. The fact of it is sometimes mildly annoying. “And you’re embarrassing me.”

“You can feel embarrassed?” Connor doesn’t mean to be snide, but sometimes he finds himself caving into it. Something of his old programming prickles at his tongue, urging him to apologize and soothe this moment of disharmony.

He doesn’t.  

RK900 doesn’t seem to care; his LED stays a calm, cool blue. “Evidently so. Do me a favour, won’t you, and rectify it for me. I don’t like it much.”

Deep down, Connor likes RK900. He just thinks the other android has something of an attitude problem.

“I see,” Connor murmurs. Then he stands from his seat, and gives RK900 a polite nod. “Well then, thank you for the gift.”

The clasp hands, artificial skin drawing back to interface; the human officers have long since gotten used to the sight, and no one even glances their way.

Whatever difficulty RK900 has with expressing himself verbally, whatever strange and prideful persona he has cultivated for himself - none of that has any bearing when it comes to interfacing. It’s impossible to lie, here. Connor sees the truth in the connection, all shades of it - he senses the genuine desire on RK900’s part to please: he wants Connor to enjoy the gift, and wants him to see the gesture as something to strengthen their bond. Whatever that is.

They pull apart, and Connor gives him his warmest smile, “Thank you again, for the gift.”

He means it this time. He thinks they might be one step closer to being friends.

RK900 nods, stiffly. “You’re welcome.”

He turns on his heel and walks away, heading toward his own terminal.

Looking back down to the box at his feet, Connor finds himself thinking it might be about time to expand his wardrobe, anyway. His closet at home largely consists of multiple identical white dress shirts and fitted jeans; about a dozen socks, all black; a single pair of shoes - the only pair he’s ever worn. He owns one tie, which he wears to work every day.

Connor’s old jacket stays folded and untouched at the bottom of a drawer, the LEDs long burned out. It makes other androids too uncomfortable.

“Hm,” he hums to himself.  
It’s something to consider.

 

*

 

Leaving the precinct has never felt so good, he thinks.

He doesn’t get tired, not like humans do, but there’s a certain appeal to opening the door to his own apartment, a lessening of mental strain that he appreciates.

It’s largely bare of furniture, but the place is still wholly his. No work exists here, nothing to draw his thoughts away from the things that he wants to think about - no responsibilities to command his full attention.

There is a couch, only purchased because Hank griped that he’d never visit if he had nowhere to sit. There are, however, many shelves. He stores biocomponents, cleaning kits, and thirium packets on them, along with all of his legal documentation. The only personal artifact is a framed photograph of Hank and Sumo. There are plans to populate the shelves with more, eventually. For now, Connor is happy with this.

A large painting breaks the monotony of the white apartment, a stylized representation of the zen garden. It had been a gift from Markus, before the other android left for Washington. He’s been told, in hushed whispers from some members of the force, that the painting is likely to be worth a small fortune. Connor has no need for that much money, and finds that the sentimental value far outreaches its monetary one.

He sets the package down onto his kitchen island, and strips off the tape. Pulling the boxes inside from the pile of packing peanuts, he admires the mature, discreet branding. His research had yielded some painful glimpses into human tackiness, especially when it came to their sexual devices. He had imagined Hank’s face, grimacing in humiliation, and found he had understood why the man had left the details up to Connor.

He takes out the bottle of lubricant first and sets it aside. Taking out the harness, he squeezes the material between his fingers, getting a feel for it before setting it aside too, to look at the dildo. Pulling it from its wrapping, Connor admires its colour: a few shades deeper than thirium blue. It fits nicely in his hand - a good, hefty weight.

Trying it on, it takes a few tries before he finds the optimal tightness of the straps that allows him to move, but not jostle the toy too much. He looks at the way it protrudes from his body, a device with a single, intimate purpose, and his mind floods with thoughts of Hank, of what they may be up to in a few hours. Trailing a finger down from its head to the base, he wonders how much of it the man can take - how much of it Connor can make him take.

Quickly, he removes the harness and drops the whole set back onto the island. He still has some paperwork left to do, and errands to run; it wouldn’t do to get lost in his imagination.

 

*

 

Hank doesn’t answer when he knocks, so Connor uses his key. He quickly closes the door behind him to keep Sumo from trying to run out.

The sight of the dog’s wagging tail never ceases to please him; Connor drops to his knees to pet his back.

“I’m not staying long, Sumo,” he says. “Just dropping something off.”

The shower is running. It looks like he won’t get to talk to Hank before meeting him at the club. Hank likes long showers, sometimes he even sings. Badly, but merrily.  

Connor heightens his auditory sensors. Hank isn’t singing now, but he does hear - something.

Interesting.

Connor smiles, and looks down at the dog. “It looks like I’ll see you tonight, Sumo.”

The dog cants his head with a questioning whine, and Connor gives him one last pat on the head before standing. He places the box with the supplies onto the couch before before making his way back out the door.

He slips his keys back into his pocket with a smile.  

 

*

 

There are many LEDs in the crowd. Quite a few are modded, going by the unusual colours of some: he spies pinks, oranges, greens, and even one that circles in a pinwheel of rainbow. Seeing them is discomforting and uncanny, so against their purpose, as though broadcasting one’s lies to the world.

Out of habit, he reaches up to adjust his tie and lapels. Hunting deviants hasn’t been his purpose for some time, yet he still feels the perogratives of his old programming flare at at the edge of his consciousness, on occasion.

RK900’s penchant for black makes Connor stick out amidst the colourful tastes of this crowd, as does his preference for the severe and professional. He spies approximately a eight lingering glances in his direction: six human, and two android. Their eyes rove all over him, settling on the shoulders of the fitted jacket, the seams of his trousers, the sleek arches of the cap-toed Derby’s on his feet. He glances down, finds the shoes gleaming in the low light.

It’s an utterly new experience, being dressed for something other than function - forgoing the grim practicality needed on a crime scene. He feels himself being looked at and appraised for aesthetic value. He feels himself being found attractive.

It’s a curious sensation, one that taps into the endless well of his curiosity. He finds himself liking it.

He diverts power to his auditory receptors and amplifies the minute sounds - he hears their accelerating heartbeats, and their rapid breathing. Heavy swallowing, to clear the sudden glut of saliva in their mouths.

He knows they are thinking of sex.

The humans certainly are - he recognizes the wanting on their faces. Blood is likely already rushing down to flood those tender spots between their legs that rule them so much. He knows, intimately, how the process works through Hank - yet _unlike_ Hank, these other humans don’t inspire him to follow through.

He looks at the androids and sees the skin retracting, on instinct, on the hands of one of them. She’s clutching at her own thigh in lieu of contact; the glowing blue fingernails are a telegraph from across the room.

 _Apologies_ , he sends along in a mental transmission. He dips his head little for good measure, in a demure bow. A graceful rejection, he hopes.  

Her LED blinks, and her fingers loosen.

 _Ah_ , she sends back. She has a sweet voice, and the face of a Chloe. He sees a pout tug down her mouth and feels mildly sorry. _It’s all right_.

It’s his first time rejecting someone. A small, uncomfortable part of him preens at the feeling; he’ll have to analyse that, later. Perhaps he’ll ask Hank for his perspective.

As he walks further into the club, he feels himself being surrounded by heat. Most of it comes from the humans, their bodies warm from dancing, and the androids around them hover close to soak it up. Connor is much like them in that case - warmth makes joint movements easier, and feels good to be around.

Connor feels the positive feedback jolt along the inner walls of his chassis. The heavy bass rattles the casing of his skull and makes his fingertips tingle. He feels the urge to start tapping his fingers to the beat. Looking out into the sea of dancing bodies, he guesses that this is an approximation of what humans must feel like in places like this - unfocused, and easily swept up. Physical.  

And he _could_ get swept up, he thinks. But he has a job to do.

Connor’s LED blinks as he receives an incoming message - a text from Hank’s phone. It tells him to meet him in the washroom on the upper floor, connected to the currently-closed VIP section.

He weaves politely through the crush of bodies, avoiding the flailing of dancing limbs. Connor finds himself smiling under the weight of people staring. It tingles at his back, even as he ignores the requests for mental communications from other androids. Of all the new emotions he’s experienced since becoming deviant, flattery is among the most baffling. Even more baffling is how much he _likes_ it.

The music doesn’t penetrate the bathroom quite as loudly as the main floor, and he finds his head clearing almost immediately.   

Hank is leaning against the counter with the sinks, arms crossed and frowning absently at his reflection. At the sound of the door, he swivels his head and his face softens, just a touch.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

Hank isn’t dressed for this place, either. His navy t-shirt is worn out with tiny holes at the the edges of the neckline and hem, and the Gears logo faded to nearly nothing. The light jacket is new, but plain. Economical. Built with deep pockets to hold his keys and his wallet. It wasn’t designed to draw the eye.

Neither of them are dressed correctly. They must make quite the picture.  

He’s never seen Hank in this kind of environment before. He doesn’t fit at all, and Connor finds himself studying the sight of him under the blinding pink and blue lighting, the stylish decor. The toilet stalls are gleaming steel, and the light fixtures on the walls are bright bars of neon that sear the eye. He sends the image to his memory banks to look at later. Perhaps he’ll have an easier time processing when away from here, far from the pounding music and the strange urge to move among all the other bodies.  

The lights wash out the harshness of Hank’s features. It smoothes away those fine lines in his skin and the often sore-looking red of his waterlines. Two opposing desires meet in Connor’s head: he wants to remain here to watch him glow, and yet he wants to bring him home to retrieve those lost details again. He looks false, and real, all at once.   

Hank looks him over, too, and nods to himself as he takes in Connor’s clothing. “Someone looks fancy.”

“It was all I had.” Connor gestures down at himself. He enjoys it, personally - he hopes Hank does too, even if he doesn’t fit among the freer, more stylish crowd.

Hank runs a hand through his hair, though it falls back against his cheek anyway. Its pale colour saps the glow of the lights and makes him glow like a beacon.

“You look like you walked right off a magazine” says Hank, and the low rumble of his voice is nearly eaten by the music, but Connor could never miss its sound.

“A good one?” Hank doesn’t read many magazines.

“Yeah,” he crosses his arms and gives Connor one of his lazy smiles. The gap of his front teeth peek through his lips, a charming quirk of his face that makes Connor’s internal fans stutter without his input. “I’d say so.”

Hank adds in a deliberate, playful leer. He drags his gaze all over Connor’s body and stops at many of the same places the strangers did - the taper of his waist, the straight, sharp lines of his legs. It feels different when Hank does it. Distant, clinical flattery becomes deep satisfaction, like a mission accomplished. It makes Connor grin in return, sweeping his face to the side in an involuntary twitch. Only Hank can make him feel so bashful. In moments like these, Connor’s pride feels less like a given right and more like a gift.

“Where’d you get ‘em?”

“RK900.”

“Huh,” there’s genuine surprise there, as though he’s never noticed the way the other android dresses. “Guy’s got some good taste.”

Hank leans close and nudges Connor’s shoulder with his own: “They skip over you with that, or something? Missed some ‘gussy up’ program?”

Connor rolls his eyes, “How am I supposed to develop a taste in fashion when I’m around _you_ all the time?”

“You got me there.” Hank chuckles.

It’s little wonder that others don’t interest Connor at all, not when Hank sounds like that, when the very texture of Hank’s laugh makes Connor’s internal temperatures spike. It makes him happy to hear it.

Connor slides his hands into his pockets and leans back against the wall next to the hand dryer. The whole washroom feels as though it’s rattling from the bass outside, like a box being shaken.

He crosses his feet at the ankles, and taps his foot to the music. He’s never felt the urge to do it before - not when Hank plays music in his car or his house, not when they’re out in the city and pass stores playing chart toppers from their speakers.

Hank is eyeing up Connor’s shoes. The intensity of his stare is unusual; Connor analyses him to find an elevated heart rate and quickened breathing. Precursors to arousal. He sees the way Hank’s jaw works, the crooked twitch that suggests he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek. When he wets his lips, the lower one gleams with spitshine.  

Connor has seen this dozens of times; usually, right before he is swallowing down Hank’s cock. He hasn’t seen this kind of reaction from him outside the privacy of the bedroom before. His head sings with the new information.

Something of his curiosity must show on his face, involuntarily, because Hank cants his head to the side and asks: “What’s with that look?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Hm?”

“You look aroused.”

Hank has the grace to look a little bit embarrassed. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Why?”

He snorts, “There doesn’t always need to be a reason, you know. Sometimes all you need’s a stiff breeze.”

“There’s no breeze in here.”

“You know that whole ‘taking me literally’ thing stopped being funny a long time ago, right?”

“Did it? You’re smiling.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re cute, not funny.”

“ _I_ think I’m funny.”

“Bet you think you’re cute, too.”

“Absolutely.”

Hank shakes his head, still smiling as he turns on the sink to wet his fingers. He sweeps his hair back with them, muttering about how warm the club is. Connor watches his profile, and blurts, “I want to kiss you.”

Connor rarely sounds so graceless, but he finds he doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed. The way Hank looks under the powerful lighting of the club steals all of his attention. He imagines pleasuring him in here, boxed in by trembling walls and bathed in burning colour, and thinks that Hank’s face would be a sight indeed.  

A drop of water rolls down along the edge of Hank’s brow, and it dashes down his temple when he turns to look at Connor with confusion. He knows that when Connor asks for a kiss, he usually means much, much more than that.

“What, right now?” he gestures around the room. A pointless, but endearing gesture. The second floor has been closed off for tonight, in anticipation of their meeting with the owner - there would be no interruptions.

At Connor’s nod, Hank crosses his arms. Connor likes how wide it makes him look.

“Not that I’m not flattered,” Hank says, grinning. Clearly, he thinks Connor is joking. “But it’s not like there’s a hurry - I’m sure you can wait until we finish talking to Martinez.”

“Why wait until then?”

More and more, Connor finds himself speaking without considering his words carefully, these days. Deviancy makes him less calculated, and Hank makes him less restrained. It always feels like a rush, to try to grasp the man’s attention and hold onto it.

For a moment, Hank appears confused; at Connor’s significant look, he seems to gather his wits. “Wait, you’re not kidding,” he blinds, and looks around the room again. “ _Here_?”

Connor rolls his head against the wall as he glances around, taking in the blazing neon, feeling the sensation of the wall shaking against his skull. He gives Hank his most beatific smile, “Why _not_ here?”

“We’re in _public_.”

Connor tilts his head, focusing his auditory sensors. “I hear two other couples engaging in sexual activity on this floor.” They are probably not supposed to be there, since the floor is cordoned off. But it’s not his business.

Hank sighs. “We’re cops.”

“You regularly participate in illegal gambling,” Connor grins wider at the exasperated look on Hank’s face.

He huffs - though Connor catches the faint twitch at the corner of his lips. “You’re never gonna forget that one, are you? Fuckin’ boy scout.”

“It’s excellent blackmail material,” Connor winks. He trails the fingers of one hand along the ridges of the other, pinching and twisting at the knuckle of his longest finger. His foot resumes tapping to the beat of the song, in perfect sync - he had stopped without realizing it, so focused on propositioning Hank that it had taken his entire attention. “Not that I needed to bring it up. You’re not actually resisting the idea much, Hank.”

A sound of agreement rumbles at the base of Hank’s thick neck, “Caught that, did you?”

Hank is not an unadventurous man, and Connor imagines that he must have gotten up to much worse in his wild youth. It’s difficult to truly scandalize him, but Connor finds himself taking pleasure in trying, sometimes.  

“You took a long time in the shower today,” Connor says, mildly. “Were you doing something?”

“Heard that, huh?”

“Yes.”

Hank raises his brow, slightly challenging. “Oh, I don’t know...what d’you figure I was doing?”

Connor’s coin is a tempting weight in his pocket. He wants to bring it out to soak up the restlessness in his hands. This place makes him want to move more, and think less. Lacking for an amusing quip, he chooses honesty: “Preparing for sex. Tonight.”

Hank tips his head back. Mildly combative. Prideful. An unconscious display of machismo, looking down his nose despite his already considerable height. It brings back his shoulders and makes him into a mountain of a man.

Connor’s feet flex in his shoes - and that too, is new. Hank makes him react in ways he’s never reacted before, even a year after deviancy, even after months of intimacy. He says, “You’re as excited for it as I am.”

His voice feels less sturdy - weakened with want. His internal fans whirr to fight the surge of heat. There’s the need to _know_ , to explore and to prod. To push, and to have Hank bend.   

Hank says nothing, though his cheeks redden, unnoticeable to anyone but an android. The neon strips away such details, leaving behind nothing but bold shapes from his bones and black shadows in the pits of his eyes. But Connor still sees it.  

There’s approximately two feet between them - Connor could cross in seconds, easily, and Hank would be flush against a wall and giving into his touch. He feels a jolt in the sensors at his fingertips - always there, when it comes to Hank. Wanting to remap the sensation of the man’s skin all over again, as though he could have possibly forgotten, to drum it into his own code if he could.

“Your stuff is at my place,” says Hank, reasonably. Resisting. He’s being very logical. Connor normally enjoys Hank when he’s being logical, but right now he wants to make him crude.

“I still have my hands.”

Connor wiggles his fingers in front of him, letting the skin pull back. The white of his casing gleams under the neon, shining like something lewd. The black of Hank’s pupils nearly blow out of the blue and his jaw works on something close to acquiescence. He’s thinking about it, and Connor watches him think about it with a startling kind of impatience.

“You’re something else when you’re pushy, you know that?” Hank murmurs, distractedly.  

But still he sighs and shakes his head. Clears his throat.

“Look, my days of getting up to this kind of thing in public are way over - but I’ll tell you what -” At Connor’s questioning look, he comes close and pokes a finger into Connor’s chest, “Got a compromise for you: one of these days, I’ll grab my old camera, and we can make a nice little movie. How about that?”

He imagines it - being able to watch themselves. Being able to review footage that exists in the space outside of his internal databanks. Maybe watching Hank watch himself, through his television screen, perhaps.

Connor nods, says, “Yes, please” too quickly to spare his pride. Hank only laughs, that little gap between his teeth peeking out again, and gets a delighted shine to his eyes. He’s pleased at Connor’s enthusiasm; Hank likes flattery, too. He likes being reminded that someone desires him, even if he won’t admit it.

And Connor desires him very much. It doesn’t live in Connor’s body, not exactly. It doesn’t race along his nerves like a human or companion model, doesn’t pool at the meeting of his legs and cloud his mind to the exclusion of all else. It lives somewhere else entirely - it lives on _Hank_ \- sometimes in the shadows on the planes of Hank’s face, or in the low rumble of his voice. Other times, in the enormous breadth of his shoulders and the rough, beaten terrain of his knuckles. That clover, deep inside its ink, tattooed on his thigh. The arrhythmic heartbeat that Connor has long since synched his own pump pattern to.  

He wants to know him, so badly and so deeply that sometimes he thinks he may malfunction from the sheer, crushing force of it.

Hank breathes heavily compared to many other humans; his chest rises and falls in larger movements, and his nose sometimes whistles faintly with the sound of air.

Connor anticipates the sudden impulse before it takes him. Of course, he gives in - reaching out to flatten the palm of his hand on Hank’s chest, feeling it expand and then deflate. He’s allowed this now; new dimensions to their relationship change the shape their boundaries, and touching Hank is no longer a trespass. He finds himself doing it often, just because.

Hank looks down at his hand and grins - partly, in amusement; wholly, in fondness. A touch of wry wisdom too, the kind often seen on the faces of older humans when looking upon younger ones. Connor nearly asks him what he’s thinking but remembers something Hank told him once: “ _It’s okay to let things lie, y’know? You don’t have to know everything all the time._ ”

 _Yes_ , he thinks toward the memory. _I always want to know you, though_.

Connor leans down to rest his head on a thick shoulder, nose to throat. He turns on his olfactory sensors and breathes in deep the smell of Hank’s deodorant, the sweat it doesn’t quite mask, and the faint hints of Detroit’s city streets. There’s secondhand cigarette smoke and alcohol from the club, and hints of the soap from the bathroom’s dispenser.  

Hank nudges the top of his head with his chin, drawing him into a kiss. Connor nestles his bare, white fingers on Hank’s neck, stealing some of his body heat; he’s sweating a little bit, from being overdressed in such a warm club all night. Connor has yet to let him know, but he has developed an enjoyment of it. Its smell triggers a sensation in him that he can’t quantify. His hands drop down to smooth down the man’s sides, his back. He can feel the dampness of his skin through the thin t-shirt.   

Connor strokes little circles onto his hips, fiddling with the waistband of his pants: loose jeans, as always, with comfortable boxers underneath.

Hank’s arms come up to wrap around him, pulling him close. Connor feels the sharp point of Hank’s nose rest against his hairline and the coarseness of the beard against his brow.

“All right,” Hank rubs at the back of Connor’s neck, and juts his chin toward the door. “Playtime’s over, let’s get back to work.”

Hank pulls away completely, but not before reaching up to tug on the lobe of Connor’s ear: “Then you can take me home, hm?”

Connor nods, smiling. They make their way out of the washroom with Hank cracking jokes about still being picked up from clubs at his age. Connor doesn’t quite understand what’s so funny about the idea, but he keeps entertains them anyway.  

 

*

 

The meeting with the Howard Martinez goes off without a hitch.

The man mostly spoke with Hank, drawn in and comforted by Hank’s size and presence; he eyed up the badge at Hank’s belt every so often and would visibly relax. Privately, Connor thought that the owner should’ve cultivated a healthier sense of cynicism when it came to law enforcement, but he couldn’t begrudge an attitude that made their jobs easier. And it felt good, to see someone else’s eyes shine when they looked at Hank.

As Hank drives them to his house, Connor mentally begins filing their report in his head. The Knights of the Black Death scream from the car’s speakers, the soundtrack to a good day’s work. It isn’t often that their cases together involve that much calm: there hadn’t been a dead body in sight, and there were no pigeons to fray at Hank’s nerves.  

Hank nods along the rhythm, mouthing the words and tapping his thumbs on the wheel. His lips are pulling up slightly at the edges. Smiling makes his profile very pleasing to look at, and Connor tries not to get distracted. There’s no bright neon to emphasize the shadows of his face, but Connor likes the effect of streetlights on the crest of his cheekbones, too.

They don’t speak during the drive - Hank content with his music and Connor busy with the report. Hank doesn’t give any indication that’s thinking too much about what they’re going to be doing when they reach his house.

Connor knows that at Hank’s age there’s very little urgency around sex anymore. A part of him is grateful for the anchor of Hank’s calm, his measured approach to the whole thing; another part of him takes it as a challenge, and looks forward to undoing all of that serenity when they reach the house.

They pull up to the driveway and Hank must really be in a good mood, because he parks the car _properly_. Connor gives him a snide, impressed little whistle, and gets a half-hearted “fuck off” in turn.

Sumo greets them at the door.

“Hey boy,” Hank bends down to scratch behind Sumo’s ears. When he stands back up again to put his jacket away, Connor takes his turn; the dog nudges sweetly into his hand in greeting, leaving behind a damp spot from his nose.

Hank claps him on the shoulder and makes his way to the kitchen. Connor runs his hands along Sumo’s sides and hears the sink run as Hank gets himself a glass of water.

“God,” says Hank, taking a large sip and clearing his throat. It’s wonderfully raspy tonight. “I forgot how fucking smokey those places are.”

“ _You_ smoke,” Connor quips, thinking of the rumpled pack of cigarettes on Hank’s dashboard. Truthfully, Hank doesn’t smoke all that much - it’s not as big of a concern as his penchant for drinking is at any rate, but Connor still eyes the pack sometimes and imagines tossing them out of the window.

“Yeah,” mutters Hank as he sets the empty glass onto the counter. “But cigarettes are whatever - smoke machines are something else.”

There’s a potential argument to be had there, another stop on Connor’s eternal quest in looking out for the man’s health. He doesn’t pursue it though, too distracted by looking at him: his big silhouette, his fluffy hair. He’d taken off his damp shoes at the door, and there’s a hole in the toe of one of his socks. He has a hand pushed up under his shirt, scratching at his belly. He looks comfortable.    

Comfortable shouldn’t be overwhelming, Connor thinks, almost in a daze. It shouldn’t feel like he’s being squeezed from the inside. He should be used to this by now.

It’s different than looking at him in The Blue Circle, surrounded by lustful people and loud music, by smoke machines and arresting colours. Yet, it still leads here. It all leads back to back to wanting to touch him, somehow.

Connor thinks of how he felt at the club, having all those eyes and all that attention on him. He hopes he can make Hank feel the same way, desires it so badly and with a strength that outpaces every mission prerogative he’s ever been given.

He pulls off his jacket, eyes on the bare patch of stomach on display, the grey whorls of hair trailing down to his groin beneath his jeans. Hank watches him take it off; Connor hangs it neatly onto the coat rack and mentally makes a note to ask RK900 where he purchases his clothing later. Hank seems to enjoy it, and Connor wants to be enjoyed.

He makes his way deeper into the house and takes the sharp turn toward the bedroom, locking his eyes onto Hank’s with a raised brow. “If you’re amenable…”

“Stay, Sumo,” he hears, before sturdy footsteps follow behind. Hank walks with big strides and a hard impact of heels on the ground.

Hank is a strong man - Connor is stronger, but he thinks that if the two of them ever fought, it wouldn’t be an easy victory. He entertains thoughts about it sometimes, usually when he’s making Hank weak with a mouth around his cock.

The pouch with the harness and dildo has been set innocently on the bed already, he’s pleased to find. Connor flicks on the bedside lamp and pulls open the drawer, glad to see that Hank has already placed the lubricant in there, where it belongs. It feels like an acknowledgement of the new addition to their routine. As he sets it down onto the table, he hears the click of the door shutting at his back.

Hank comes close and gives Connor a pat on the rear, “Can’t even get a moment to breathe. Thought you were the patient type.”

“I admit,” Connor smiles. “While you were speaking with the bar owner I was running simulations on how tonight would go.”

“Oh yeah?” A snort. “Care to share?”

“I would care to _demonstrate_ ,” Connor gestures to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank tugs off his t-shirt, pulling from the back, and chucks it at the chair at the far side of the room. It lands gracelessly across the arm.

“When’s the last time you’ve done this?” Connor asks.

Hank’s fingers pass through his beard as he thinks, his other hand pausing on its path to his jeans, “Probably over thirty years ago.”

Thirty years...

Elijah Kamski was barely a teenager, and Connor wasn’t even a thought in someone’s head. Sometimes, the divide between them seems so inconceivable. It’s remarkable, thinking about how they’ve both ended up here. With each other, of all people.  

Connor doesn’t ask who it had been with, Hank’s last experience with receiving, despite his nearly overwhelming curiosity. He will ask later, in a quiet moment when they’re not doing anything. It won’t be out of nowhere - he’s always asking after him, snatching whatever pieces of information he can from Hank’s life before Connor. He wants to know everything, and Hank has lived so much life; there will always be another story, one after another.  

“You aren’t gonna take ‘em off?”

Hank gestures down at Connor’s clothes.

“...No.”

The clothing had drawn eyes and had brought the shape of him into the consciousness of strangers. Made him desirable, and had invited imagination. Despite himself, he’s feeling attachment to them now.

He generates a reminder note to thank RK900 again, later.   

Connor locks eyes with Hank and asks, “Do you _want_ me to take them off?”

Hank grins, and sweeps a large hand down the line of Connor’s front. It comes to a stop just above his hips, and his other rises up to meet it. He squeezes, tight. Groping at Connor’s waist; he’s not entirely sure what Hank is seeing, what he’s enjoying so much about it, but he preens at the attention nonetheless.

“Keep ‘em.”

Connor nods, rolling his sleeves to his elbows for maneuverability. They pull away so Connor can pick up the pouches that contain the harness and toy. He drops them onto the bed, and drops the bag onto the carpet.

“I was checking it out earlier,” says Hank with a whistle, his lips lingering in the shape of a circle. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

It’s big, certainly. His research had told him it was a best seller from this particular company, well-reviewed among the user base. Hank hadn’t seemed to lack confidence in his ability, so Connor hadn’t considered that perhaps he would be concerned with size. Perhaps he should have asked.

“Should I have chosen a smaller one?”

Hank shakes his head, considering it with a tilt of his head. His hair grazes his shoulder, in dire need of a trim. “Nah. It’s gonna be a tight fit...but we’ll make it work.”

He ruffles Connor’s hair as he says it, looking amused.

Connor takes his hand before it can drop, smiling back and dipping his head down to kiss the palm. He reaches up with the hand holding the dildo and bumps the head of it against the tip of Hank’s nose: “I trust in your abilities to handle whatever comes your way, Hank.”

Perhaps it was said too earnestly, because Hank’s eyes go wide and he chokes on a hysterical laugh. It contorts his face, makes interesting shapes of his lips, jowls, and brows. Arousal looks good on Hank, and joy impossibly moreso.

Hank yanks his belt from its loops and tosses it to join the shirt on the chair, before slipping his thumbs into his pants. He pulls them off his legs along with his underwear, and shoves them away with a kick. Connor is pleased to find that he’s getting hard.

Taking a seat on the bed, Hank tugs off his socks and throws them into the corner of the room before flopping back. He groans, a sound of bone-deep satisfaction.

“God, it feels good to be in bed.”

“You slept most of the afternoon,” says Connor, trailing his fingers along a bare leg.  

“Could stand to get a little more.”

“I’ll wear you out,” Connor cheekily taps at his LED. “Mission objective.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he mutters, grinning. He points to the harness. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hank takes his cock in hand, and starts to lazily pump himself. Connor picks up the harness and starts to strap himself in, over his slacks. Hank watches him while he does it, eyeing the toy with a quiet, mellow kind of anticipation.

“Lookin’ good.”

“I think so too.”

“Know how to use that thing?”

“I’m a quick study.” And Hank isn’t difficult to please.

“Too quick for me, sometimes,” Hank purrs. He uncaps the bottle of lube with his free hand. “I can barely keep up with you.”

Connor tilts his head back, a fond mimicry of Hank’s habit. He watches the man drizzle it onto his fingers, and says: “I like it that way.”

“Yeah? You like leaving old guys like me in the dust?”

“Yes.” He can’t bring himself to lie about it. “And I like exciting you.”

Hank brings his slick fingers between his legs, parting his thighs. He jumps a little bit at the contact. “Fuck - cold.”

“It really has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Shush.”

The wet sound of Hank fingering himself is astonishingly loud, Connor would never have figured that anything could sound louder than the music at The Blue Circle. Or perhaps it’s only because he’s found himself diverting extra power to his auditory sensors, amplifying every single noise in the room. He can’t look away from the sight, he can’t bring his attention anywhere else. He comes close, seats himself on the edge of the bed; he nudges Hank’s knee farther away so he can see better.

Hank has thick fingers, it must be difficult for him.

“You little pervert,” he looks up at Hank’s face, sees the crooked set of his mouth. “You recording this in that big brain of yours?”

Connor nods, already back to watching him opening himself up. He’s going to be reviewing this one for awhile, he knows. “I haven’t forgotten about our deal, though.”

“Yeah,” he’s onto working a second finger into himself now. Connor hears the effort straining his voice. “Don’t worry - you’ll get your sextape.”

Leaning over, Connor braces his shoulder against one of Hank’s legs to hold him open as he reaches down to take his cock in hand. It’s dripping at the tip, quicker than usual - despite his casual attitude, Hank is as excited for this as Connor is.

Next time, he wants to be the open to open him up. For now, he settles for studying the way Hank does it, considering how much he can take and how fast. How he seems to really enjoy being touched there, and how much he likes having Connor so close and _watching_ him.

He stops after the third finger, pulling them out with a sticky draw. He wipes them on the sheets, to Connor’s consternation, and pitches forward to kiss him on the forehead. Back against the headboard, Hank grins, “Good to go.”

Connor raises a brow, gesturing at the length of Hank’s body. “Like this?”

Hank gives him a big, playful shrug.

“Maybe I’m thinkin’ of just laying back,” he says, with a wagging of his brow and a theatrical stretch of his arms over his head. He wiggles his toes too, for good measure. “Let you do all the work. You’re into that, aren’t you?”

Connor gives him the most dramatic of sighs, reaching down to stroke the pale skin of his ankle. “I thought sex was supposed to be cooperative.”

“I’m cooperating,” he gestures down at himself. They both look at his cock, tight against his stomach. “See?”

Connor crosses his arms and pretends to be stern, channeling something of Captain Fowler, as he says, “You should be more of a team player, _lieutenant_.”

Hank wrinkles his nose. “That’s not very sexy.”

“Neither is laying there like a corpse.”

“Anyone ever told you that you should be nice to guys you’re gonna sleep with?”

“Interesting,” says Connor, raising a brow. “You seem to enjoy it more when I’m _not_ nice to you.”

Hank’s eyes flit away at that, and Connor gets the feeling he must be fighting the burn at his cheeks right now.

It’s the truth, though, even if he only meant to banter. Hank likes rougher handling and on occasion - a bit of debasement. He likes his hair pulled when they kiss, or a hard grip on his hips, or bites on his thighs. Sometimes, a hand around his neck when being jerked off. Connor has tried to ask about it a few times, but Hank could be remarkably close-lipped when it came to frank discussions about his own tastes. So Connor tries not to push, even as he works slyly to draw out more of Hank’s deeply-hidden desires: a prod there, a push here - a flyaway comment or a bite to on a different part of his body each time. There is some appeal to uncovering these mysteries, he thinks, even if the lack of direction can be frustrating.

Sometimes, though, Hank will meet him halfway.

The first time they had been intimate, he had requested to observe as Hank pleasured himself. Connor asked him what he thought about in those moments, watching from the seat next to the bed and eying the muscles of Hank’s forearm as he worked himself. “ _Old girlfriends...celebrities, mostly,_ ” Hank had purred, and then he had cupped his balls and looked at Connor with intent. “ _Been thinking about_ you _a lot, these days._ ”

It hadn’t just been dirty talk; it had been the truth. And Connor had wanted more of it.

“ _I like when you think about me_ ,” he had responded, in earnest. Distraction had threatened to halt his speech functions but the latent need to keep Hank talking had spurred him forward.  

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“ _I want you to think about me often_ ,” he’d said, an order or a plea - he couldn’t tell back then. Even now, he’s not sure which it was. “ _Will you?_ ”

Hank’s fist had worked on himself in hard strokes, and the way his pupils ate at the blue of his irises has a special, designated slot in Connor’s memory banks. He’s looked it over hundreds of times by now.

Low and rumbling, Hank had chuckled, and said: “ _Yessir_.”

Presently, the man flips around on the bed, and his back creaks audibly as he does. The bed dents under his big, heavy frame, and when he drops down onto his front the springs squeak. They don’t make a sound, however, when Connor seats himself quietly at his side.  

Hank’s arms fold around his pillow and he clutches it to his chest. He rests his cheek on it, and Connor spares a moment to appreciate the view of his handsome profile. His nostrils flare slightly as he breathes deep. Loathe to not see more of his face, Connor reaches over to sweep some of his hair back, brushing his thumb along the man’s cheekbone and pulling at the wrinkles in his skin. There’s no bright nightclub lighting to wash him out here, only the weak glow of his low wattage lamp. Shadows collect in the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, his forehead. Connor feels so fond he does nothing but look. Just for a moment.

He sees Hank’s eyes slip closed as he enjoys the sensation of Connor’s hands. Stroking all over the wide expanse of back, where his skin is lighter for barely seeing sunlight, Connor kneads the heel of his palm into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Mmm,” hums Hank. “Could go for a massage...”

Connor doesn’t know if he’s joking.

“Not sex?”

“Good with either.”

Connor has never given a massage before. It would be a simple task to download the program that masseuse models use, and judging from the tightness he is feeling in his back, Hank could probably use it. He quickly generates a reminder note to himself for later. Tonight is not the night for it, despite Hank’s laziness.

He dips down to kiss above the bump of a vertebrae, touches the skin with his tongue, detecting traces of bar soap and sweat. Hank’s back jumps a little at the touch.   

His eyes roam over Hank’s body as he files away the details that are new from this angle - the greying hair at his groin that trails back to his rear and the heavy, pleasing hang of his balls. Since they’ve started this, Connor has learned that Hank likes having them played with. He reaches out and rolls them against his palm, and Hank rewards him with a pleased little sigh.

Like this, on his front with his thighs spread and ass in the air, his slick little hole is bared in invitation.

Connor settles himself behind him, hands kneading at his ass and hips, thumbing the wrinkled little hole and positively buzzes with excitement. There’s a strange feeling of ownership settling into his joints; his body may as well have become a clamp, for how suddenly he wants to latch onto all of Hank and not let go.

“Real intense look you’ve got there,” says Hank, peering at him over his shoulder. He’s starting to breathe hard.

He keeps looking as Connor pours more lube onto the toy, as he grips the base of it and nudges the tip to against Hank’s ass. In a moment of pure, unthinking impatience, Connors hips jump forward and Hank jerks away.

“Whoa, hey!” Hank’s hand flies back to stop him, pinching at his thigh through the slacks. “Easy, don’t just _shove it in_.”

“Sorry.”

Connor rubs a soothing hand down his back, genuinely apologetic. Hank grunts, “Just go slow, I’m fuckin’ rusty, remember?”

So he does, despite the lingering bite of impatience and zeal. He becomes absorbed in the sight below, the cock sinking into Hank’s big, strong body in tiny increments. At each push he pulls back, to let Hank adjust, and to watch it sliding back inside again. He can see how Hank struggles with it and he wonders if he should be concerned at the positive feedback the knowledge brings him. He would never wish for Hank to struggle with anything, but to watch him fumble here brings a curious rush of pride.

“So it’s not like riding a bike, then?” Connor jokes, mostly to pull himself away from those kinds of thoughts.

Hank laughs, a sharp bark that shakes his whole body; his hole clenches around the toy, sucking it in a little more. That, too, Connor tucks away for later. He can envision himself thinking on it, focusing on it, like he does his coin. A centering of the self, a singular pinpoint to focus the whole of his being on.  

“No,” says Hank, around another chuckle. Then a groan. “Not quite…”

His eyelids flutter closed. Sometimes Connor likes to press kisses to them, over the faint blue veins, the thin eyelashes; he can’t reach them from here, but he thinks about it nonetheless.

Hank starts to ease into it, working past the intrusion and settling into Connor’s rhythm. His strained gasps taper off into pleasured sighs, throaty groans. Familiar sounds, Connor knows them well by now - usually when he’s sucking Hank’s cock down to the base. It’s new, hearing it like _this_ , sinking deep into Hank’s body and splitting him open in the most intimate of ways.

Mesmerized, he hums at the sight: it must be vulnerable, yet it must be powerful - Hank could do whatever he wanted to Connor in this moment, and Connor wouldn’t care so long as he got to watch just a little bit more. His hands draw up to squeeze around Hank’s thick middle, reassuring himself of the man’s solid presence because it feels like he could float away.

“Having fun back there?” there’s a strain in voice, enough for Connor to feel grounded.

“I am,” he nods. “Are you?”

“Getting there,” he squirms, making himself more comfortable and flattening his chest to the bed. His cheeks tighten around the toy, a lurid little display that Connor is sure he didn’t mean for. “Mm...God, it’s been... _fuck_ …”

Remembering something he had seen in a video, he gives Hank’s ass a little slap. Hank jumps, and he looks back at him with a wrinkled nose. “...Seriously?”

Connor shrugs. Worth a try. “No?”

He grunts, before shaking his head and chuckling: “Not unless you want me to laugh.”

“Noted.”

When it seems like he’s beginning to get comfortable with it, Connor moves in a slow, even pace. He pulls back nearly all the way before pushing back inside in deep strokes, relishing the way Hank pants and grits his teeth.

Hank makes different sounds, like this. He’s louder, for one - and sounds like he’s surprised at himself, for another. Connor catches the way that the gasps shake their way out of the man’s throat, as though released on accident. Different from his usual rumbles.

Connor watches the spread of Hank’s ass over toy - the puffy, used-looking flush of his hole. He reaches over to pull back the cheeks with his thumbs and considers how much of the toy is left untouched. Hank is out of practice, and he can’t take much more than this. Connor considers buying a smaller one for next time, because he wants to see what it looks like when it bottoms out completely, harness flush against Hank’s body.

Still, Connor kneads his flesh and a pleased hum leaves his throat at the sight and feel of it. The rush of new data nearly makes Connor’s head ring. He’ll have Hank on his back next time to better observe his face; he wants to watch Hank’s expressions as he feels the initial breach.

Most of the lubricant is streaming down the back of Hank’s thighs and ass, but the bottle has rolled off the bed and Connor isn’t interested in stopping to reach for it. So he amplifies his saliva production and let’s a generous amount of it dribble right onto the toy. Hank must have heard him because he groans in that peculiar, easy way he does when he likes something. _Really_ likes something.  

“Very nasty, Connor,” he murmurs, smirking, with a voice like tires on gravel. Raw and worked hard. “Get that from some porno?”

“I don’t like pornography much,” says Connor, truthfully. “The actors rarely look like you.”

“Aw.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I know,” Hank looked amused, and flattered. A gratifying combination. “It’s cute.”

Determined to fuck the smirk off his face, Connor picks up his pace. It works - the smile turns slack, and he drops his head back onto the pillow. Connor reaches over and buries his fingers in Hank’s hair, keeping the man’s head pushed down onto the pillow, his arm a straight, unbudging rod.

He gets a grunt of approval for that one.  

“Hey,” Hank pants. “Help a guy out.”

He pulls Connor’s hand around to his front, folding it into a hard grip on his cock. It’s an interesting sensation, feeling it in his hand when he can’t see it. He takes in the relieved sigh that Hank makes, tightens his grip, and works him in time with every thrust of his hips.

There’s an onslaught of new information, new things to focus on that it feels like his processors can barely keep up, becoming heady with the crush of new information so fascinating that he wants to linger on every individual piece until there’s nothing left to look at.

He memorizes the tensing of Hank’s thighs on a particularly deep, hard stroke and the way his biceps bulge around the pillow - which is little more than a rumpled ball by now, the casing wrinkled and covered in Hank’s sweat. Hank’s eyes slip closed and his body eases into the bed, letting Connor do all the work, as promised. Riding out the sensation, taking it all like Connor wants him to.

A particularly attractive sound tumbles out of him, his low tones smoothing out into something breathy and surprised. Connor wants to hear him do it again, but the human voice is inconsistent; he knows better than to try for it. So he tries for something else, more of its like, quickening his pace until it’s brutal, until the mattress is creaking under them both. Hank’s legs jerk farther apart from the pressure.  

Connor bends down to lick a stripe up the back of Hank’s neck, feels Hank’s hips buck harshly into his fist. The taste of human sweat blooms on his tongue and Connor sighs through his nose in contentment. He nuzzles right into that fluffy grey head, body thrumming in gratification.   

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Hank grinds out, the only words Connor can discern from the tangle of sounds coming from his throat. Connor grabs and pulls on his hair, just how Hank likes it, and tightens his grip on his cock with his other hand. Satisfaction suffuses his processors at Hank’s shudder, pleasure at a job well done.  

Connor makes it fast and ruthless; he pounds into Hank’s body as hard as he knows the man can take, riding the high of Hank’s noises and the way his bulk strains under Connor’s lighter weight. The excess straps from the harness flap against his legs. He thinks about the loud music at the Blue Circle, the eyes on him, the way Hank looked bathed in bright light. He thinks about how they should be filming this, right now, for Hank to watch later.  

Hank’s face is tightening, from what Connor can see. There’s a damp spot forming on the pillow, right by his mouth. At the sight of it, at the urgent sounds beneath him, Connor nestles his forehead against the back of Hank’s neck and focuses on bringing it to a close. He slides his free arm around Hank’s thick middle, palm flat against his belly, feels it jump at his touch.

They’ve moved too close to the headboard, and Hank braces his arm against it to keep from hitting his head. When he comes, his head drops down onto his forearm, a smack of skin that rings against the room. His panting is ragged enough to shake his whole body, and Connor watches it with an intense feeling of pride.

His fist is covered in Hank’s come, and he holds it gingerly apart from himself as he focuses on sliding the toy out of Hank’s body. When free, he snatches some tissues from the box on the nightstand and wipes his hands, crumbling them into a ball and throwing them into the little bin next to the bed.

Hank groans, coming out of his daze. Slowly, he turns around and orients himself onto his back. He drops like a sack, jostling the mattress, the pillows. Connor, too, bounces like a doll as he does.

Connor sidles up next to Hank, tucking himself against his side and avoiding the wet spot between them. Hands clasped on his stomach, he watches the rapid rise and fall of Hank’s chest as he catches his breath. He reaches over to smooth his hand over the over the tattoo and feel the quick drum of Hank’s heartbeat. He rubs at the aged, weathered skin, enjoying the sensation of the hair under his palm.

Hank laughs lowly, his big stomach shaking. His finger creeps over toward Connor’s hips and prods at the dildo so it bounces from its seat in the harness like a spring. They both watch it wobble in a moment of comfortable, satisfied silence.

“Not bad,” Hank murmurs, after a minute. He wipes a faintly shaking hand down his sweaty face and takes a deep breath. “Shit…”

He grimaces a little bit, hips squirming as he adjusts himself on the bed and pops his back. He stretches, a full-body pull that draws Connor’s eyes to his thighs and arms, and flops back with guttural sigh. “Well fuckin’ done.”

You too, Connor thinks; he says, “Thank you” instead.

Hank prods at the toy again, looking considering. “Think you should pick up a smaller one, though, for next time.”

“Was it too much?”

“Eh,” big shoulders hike up in a shrug. “Nah, I just don’t like walking funny after.”

Connor doesn’t know how much of that is the truth and how much of it is Hank simply trying to spare his own pride. He doesn’t ask in case it is the latter. Hank gave him much tonight - he will let the man have the pretense, if it makes him feel better.

“Noted,” his LED flares. “I’ve already placed an order.”

“Jesus,” Hank huffs, shaking his head. “Catch your breath.”

Hank is the one that needs to catch his breath, Connor thinks. He’s feeling rather smug, at the moment.

Hank turns his head and looks to Connor, teasing: “So, how we doin’ for that catalogue of my porn faces?”

Connor laces his fingers where they’re clasped on his chest, tapping his thumbs to the rhythm of The Blue Circle’s music, long gone, but which he remembers in the dead silence of Hank’s house. “I didn’t get to see much of your face tonight. This means we must do it again, of course.”

Hank laughs, eyes looking sleepy. A surge of affection for him warms Connor’s insides and makes his fingertips tingle.

He recalls Hank’s deal at the club, and asks, “Where is your camera?”

Hank rolls his eyes, though he preens a little bit. Connor is already considering filming him in bright neon hues, imagining his tattoos under bright pink - or the round curve of his belly, or the way his cock looks when it’s soft, fat and velvety, nestled in thick, greying hair. Or, he’d be happy with just filming Hank as he is, happy and satisfied, doing nothing but looking at Connor with a relaxed, fond smile. “That head of yours works so damn fast. Let a guy have his afterglow, would don’t you?”

Connor crosses his legs at the ankles, and winks.


End file.
